


Thunder, 2 AM

by getoffmysheets



Series: A Storm Inside 221B [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caretaker John, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sexual Tension, Virgin Sherlock, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-13 18:06:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4531872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/getoffmysheets/pseuds/getoffmysheets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The hairs on the back of John's neck prickle at the sound of Sherlock's voice, roughened and blurry, made pleading and whiny with his tiredness, saying his name. He did not dare face the bed. “Close m'yes an' keep fallin' offa'th roof,” Sherlock murmured, breathing deeply.</p><p>“You've been having nightmares about falling off the roof of Bart's?” </p><p>Sherlock is sleep deprived and John attempts to help, but temptation is too nearby with the object of his lust sleeping beside him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thunder, 2 AM

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I know I should be writing the next chapter of "His King". Naughty author! This fucking wanker - no pun intended - wouldn't leave me alone, though. 
> 
> If you squint and tilt your head to the left, this could be considered somnophilia, I guess? But not really? John is the vehicle of Sherlock's wet dream and he finds this very enjoyable because he is such a lovable trashcan :-D I don't believe you can consider this dub-con? Look, I just don't know...

After a bit of reflection, John contemplates that his whole life is basically built on lies. The two most beloved people in his life fed him on a high octane diet of bullshit, and in a harsh break-taking moment, John finds himself caught. Which is it, John? Which of them can hold you? Your pregnant wife? Or your best friend?

The woman who fed you tiny lie after lie from the moment you met her, until your entire relationship feels like a sham you barely recognize, or the man who showed you the truest pieces of himself and told you a lie so big that it broke your heart – nearly broke your whole spirit?

By the time the news comes, he listens and feels...numb. Hollow.

The baby isn't real. 

Mary was nothing more than Moriarty's plant. 

Moriarty died thirty minutes ago. Mary died beside him.

“John?” Sherlock's voice was tender with concern.

He turns his eyes up to look in the pale depths in front of him. Dully, he said “Can we go home now?”

Sherlock looked startled. “We? You want to go back to Baker Street?”

“That's home, isn't it?” he replied with a wry, empty smile. 

“Yes. Yes, of course,” Sherlock said, snapping out of his daze. “We can leave immediately.”

He feels...off-kilter. Adrift, after that. It is surprisingly easy to settle back into the world of varying chaos and calm that is Sherlock at 221B. Many times, it occurs to John that Sherlock actually makes it easy. Dragging him on frantic chases through dark alleyways, knife-fights at dawn, drug-busts at noon. And during the quiet moments at home, always hovering slightly, just on the edge of being obvious, that air of fearful concern draped over his presence every bit as much as that bloody Belstaff. 

There are now a few truths John can cling on to.

Without the shadow of a doubt, Sherlock is his very best and dearest friend, and the love of his life. 

And Sherlock's love for John is not the same he carries for him, but it is true, and it is deep, and he is glad for it every day. It is not Sherlock's fault that he isn't wired for a romantic, physical relationship, and not John's fault that his body's desires are wired to respond to six feet of lanky detective. 

After hours of staring at the cracks in his bedroom ceiling, John is finally at peace with this. His days of dating and idle thoughts of an eventual life of suburbia are over. If there is one thing that he knows, it's that his place is here, with Sherlock. John will love him in any way he can, and if that is at arm's length, he will accept that. The intensity of his physical cravings are his own problem and at thirty-nine, he's old enough to take care of that himself.

~oh god yes~

They have three straight of weeks of cases that are frankly, mind-blowing. Brilliant chases, wickedly clever criminals, and Sherlock was bloody fantastic.

Whirling through deductions that leave the people around them standing slack-jawed and snapping through cases like an observational shark. He was diamond-bright and so beautiful it almost hurt to look at him. At least fifty times a day, John would catch himself thinking “I could bloody kiss that sinful mouth right now.”

As he did on any case, Sherlock was ignoring the needs of his transport, eating little but tea and biscuits, never sleeping more than a few hours in a week. Normally, this would be fine since a case would usually either stall or be solved by the ten day mark, and then John would feed him up and Sherlock would crash for ten to fourteen hours and be fine. 

But the cases kept coming, and Sherlock had been running on minimal food and rest for twenty-three days. By the conclusion of their eighth case, John took Sherlock to Angelo's practically at gun-point and he ate cheese manicotti until he pleaded with John to let up. 

And John did let up, because Sherlock's eyelids were beginning to slide down and his speech was gently slurring, his deep voice lulling into its most sensual, chocolately tones, dark and sweet. “C'mon,” he said fondly, gazing at his wide glazed eyes. Sherlock is angelic in the candlelight, his features softened with exhaustion and the satisfaction of wrapping up a puzzle. “Let's get home before I have to carry you to the cab.”

Sherlock hummed something that could have been amusement or derision, he wasn't quite sure.

John did end up having to drag him into the cab, as his fine motor skills were not quite up to the task of getting up and into the taxi. After giving their destination to the cabbie, John frowned over at him, propped up against the opposite door, eyes lazy and vague. “How long has it been since the last time you slept more than three hours?”

“Wes'day,” Sherlock slurred out.

“Which Wednesday?” John demanded in concern. It was Friday. 

Sherlock attempted something like a shrug and nearly fell over. He leaned drunkenly against John, face nuzzled to the shoulder of his jacket, and John's heart gave a fierce painful thump he loved him so. 

“You're going straight to bed,” he murmured, hauling the surprisingly heavy git out of the back seat and he paid the fare and searched for his keys. “You're a bloody maniac, you are.” 

Getting a six foot man up seventeen stairs was no small feat, but John managed it just fine. He was grateful to be able to drop Sherlock onto his bed, though. He lowered him gently, knowing that Sherlock was not capable of stopping his own descent to the mattress. Clumsily, Sherlock begins to remove his clothing and John quickly averts his eyes, turning to exit from the room.

“Jawwwn,” he slurred. “Don't go.” 

The hairs on the back of John's neck prickle at the sound of Sherlock's voice, roughened and blurry, made pleading and whiny with his tiredness, saying his name. He did not dare face the bed. “I'm not leaving, Sherlock. I'm going up to my room and going to sleep, just like you are.”

“Stay he', Jawn,” Sherlock pleaded, almost incoherent. “N'mares.” 

He paused in the doorway, slowly turning. He thanked his lucky stars Sherlock had already managed to drag himself beneath the sheets – especially since the clothing scattered across the covers seemed to indicate he was only wearing his pants. “You've been having nightmares?” 

“Close m'yes an' keep fallin' offa'th roof,” Sherlock murmured, breathing deeply.

Time seems to slow and stop for John. Every once and a while, there's that tiny reminder that Sherlock is both more and less than a being of the divine. “You've been having nightmares about falling off the roof of Bart's?”

“Mmhm,” he sighed sleepily, his pale eyes rolling in his head as he tried to follow John's movement around the room.

John shucked off his clothes, and slipped into the left side of the bed, pulling back the covers. He laid on his back, hands properly folded, still wearing a vest along with his pants. He dared to pet the head full of dark curls – the softest of touches to pacify his desires. “Go to sleep, Sherlock. I'll be here if you wake up.”

“Mmmkay.” His eyes were already closing heavily, breaths growing even and more relaxed. He was facing John slightly, on his slide. 

Even something as simple as the sight of his lashes creating soft shadows on sharp crests of his white cheekbones was...heart breaking. John sighed quietly, staring out at the sodium lamps glaring in from the windows. “Sweet dreams...”

~oh god yes~

John was suddenly and very abruptly awake. He couldn't recall finally falling asleep, and his abrupt reversal from that state was startling. Thunder rolled in the distance, rain washing in sheets over the gray, dozing city. Glancing at the alarm clock – newly repaired after an incident with a hammer – John realized that it was only 2 am. 

Sherlock was doing a very accurate portrayal of an octopus. The taller man's chest was plastered to John's back, arms draped heavy and lax around his waist with sleep. Hot damp breaths drifted over the bare skin of his neck. And Sherlock's very erect cock was nestled lovingly into the muscular curve of John's arse. 

Biting his lip, John debated his options. 

It was a natural human reaction, after all. It literally meant nothing – Sherlock wasn't even awake. He could be dreaming about chasing down criminal masterminds or examining helium molecules or even nothing at all. He was clearly not having a nightmare, though.

As he debated just getting up and going up to his own bed however, the decision was thoroughly taken out of John's hands.

Sherlock began moving.

Well, moving implies that he shifted position on the bed. It was more like...grinding. 

The arms twined around his body tightened, Sherlock's hips began flexing eagerly, the hot throbbing length of him rubbing over the swell of his arse. As if that hadn't weakened John's intentions to get out of the bed enough, Sherlock huffed out low panting breaths against his neck, the hint of a moan beginning at the back of his throat. 

“Jesus,” John breathed, trying to stay still and whispering desperately into the stillness of the room “Sherlock? Sherlock? Shit, you're still sleeping – ah! Ah, oh god...”

Large slender hands with blunt fingernails scraped across his chest, over the hardening peaks of his nipples, hands curling possessively over John's pectorals. The panting grew louder with a real bit of voice behind it, the sound curling around John's cock and thickening it in hard pulses. “Ah-hahn, hahn, hahn...”

The strange intimate feeling of Sherlock's mouth, the bridge of his nose, his eyelashes against the thin sensitive skin of his neck and collar when he curled farther forward, burying his face in the crook of John's shoulder. John groaned helplessly, all defenses lost to such a tender, innocent feeling in the midst of the lava of lust pouring into his brain.

A full body shudder passed over him, unintentionally wriggling his arse over Sherlock's cock.

The pants grew into moans, the same huffing sound over and over again “Hahn-hahn-hahn!”, more and more desperately. Sherlock struggled to give himself relief, frantically humping against John's backside which the other man had begun shamelessly arching out for him. The short nails scratched over his chest, clutching him greedily. 

John bit at the pillow beside his cheek, trying to muffle his own groans and whines as he stroked himself through his pants.

A hot wet tongue slid over his neck, Sherlock keening low and beautiful, and both of their cocks jumped fiercely. In whatever world he was in, Sherlock apparently liked the taste, because he leaned forward and bit into the meat of John's good shoulder, sucking hard and still moaning. 

Shouting hoarsely into the goose down, John's vision went white as he came, soaking his pants with semen and slumping against the mattress. 

As his senses came back to him, he realized that Sherlock hadn't reached the same finish he had. His poor detective was still desperately grinding against him. The hairs on the back of John's neck prickled as Sherlock's moans became a frustrated, needy whine, clearly trying so hard but just as obviously unable to finish himself. 

Swallowing hard, John slid a hand behind himself, gripped the generous, supple curve of Sherlock's gorgeous arse and squeezed, bringing their bodies closer together.

“Ah-hahn! Huhn! Huhn-huhn-huhn!” Sherlock was sobbing, body shaking around him as John's possessive grip forced his cock more firmly to John's arse.

“That's it, baby, just like that. You can do it.” John crooned, shivering in sympathy at the frantic cries. “Come on, Sherlock. I've got you. Come for me, baby.”

Wet warmth spread over John's buttocks, Sherlock's nails digging hard into his chest and the sleeping man shuddered and gave several soft, low whimpers. 

John waited for him to calm down and then gently disengaged, nearly fleeing from the bed. He knew it was going to take all the hours until dawn to suppress the sound of that voice, strung out with desire and keening hungrily for pleasure and the feel of his lean graceful body surrounding him, shivering helplessly as he surrendered utterly to his orgasm beneath John's hand.

~oh god yes~

Sherlock blinked at the sunlight dancing over the opposite wall, a frown furrowing between his brow. He'd been asleep, but he hadn't had the nightmare.

For years, nearly every time he slept, he stepped off the ledge. For one moment, suspended in time before falling, drowning. Feeling his limbs try to claw his way back to the edge, flailing in panic before his descent. Except in those dreams, he always really did hit the ground, his fragile body breaking with the impact. Watching John break with his grief as well.

Last night he'd actually had a very good dream, intense and overwhelming.

“That's it, baby, just like that. You can do it.” John's voice had been so vivid, his tones soothing and gentle. “Come on, Sherlock. I've got you. Come for me, baby.”

He rolled over, grimacing at the feel of dried come inside his underwear.

Definitely his least favorite thing about wet dreams.

In his afterglow, Sherlock missed the hand-shaped imprint of a semen stain that doesn't belong to his own hand. 

The soiled sheets are bundled up for the wash the next day.


End file.
